


Let Go

by Esahc



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Other, Pale Bondage, Pale Porn, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, this is also probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esahc/pseuds/Esahc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being on the run is surprisingly time-consuming, but sometimes they manage to steal a moment for themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> Does Praise Kink count if it's pale?

Been a long time since Karkat could do such a powerful motherfucking work on you. But a rare long quiet span, the humans getting on with their humanness, and you keeping yourself behaved, well. He's got the time to do more than a rushed passing pap or hurried shoosh. He's got the time to do a blessed cruel kindness on you, and you- you _always_ got the motherfucking _need._

The cuffs are supple leather worn soft, no ropes for your stupid overpowered highblood ass, naught but good sturdy chain, heavy wide cuffs that cover halfway up your forearm, padded so you can't do yourself an injury.  He spent an age on you, rough-gentle hands rasping against the tender pulse of your wrist, peeling away your shirt- tattered and mended so many times the trainee laughsassin insignia is meaningless marks on anonymous grey, the blood-bright purple faded and shameful and even this he stripped away from you, eased off your bones until you lay bare and raw before him. You let him guide your arms back, crossed at the wrists and that little click that means they're locked together. You could get free, even still, bendy motherfucker you are, your thoracic hinges pop in and out like it's the messiah's own design that they do, Your horns are sharp and your walkstubs are strong, you could kick him away, get your arms up front- he cradles your face in his hands, brows all furrowed in deep thought as he runs a finger from hairline to jawline, too light to muss your paint, so light you can barely feel it and you shiver and go limp in his hold. He pulls you up off the pile and helps you onto the respite couch you share, and next are your legs, shackled to each other and your wrists, so you're bent in a parody of reverence, kneeling on the padded platform with your head bowed, and here he hesitates, because you've done this shit before, but this next piece, it's new and motherfucking shiny and bought special for his wriggling day. You'd presented it to him privately, all purple-flushed and bashful stuttering, after a dangerously long spell spent in a rare Alternian port where, miracle of miracles, your motherfucking credits still ran. You twist how you can and nuzzle into his hand, making encouraging noises, and he steels himself and pushes on. Cold metal fits snug over your hornbeds, and at first you feel not a motherfucking thing, but then they twitch and pinch, and you have to bite back a pained hiss as the biowires taste your blood and calibrate, and you shudder all over and whimper in honest fear because it feels like half your motherfucking pan is _gone._ You're blind and motherfucking crippled and you can't feel Karkat's ever present fear or Dave's sleeping mind three blocks over or Dirk's constant anxieties as he mans the controls for his strange inorganic ship.

Karkat pulls away, bare horror on his face and reaches for your horns again and you pull yourself together fast before he can take this away from you. " _No._ " you rasp at him and he yanks his frond away like you burned him, "motherfucking-" you whine, fight the shackles without meaning to, and tell him, "Just getting accustomed, best friend." You try a reassuring smile you don't think works, but he nods and pulls away, gives you a minute to breathe and find what remains of you with the suppressors on and your voodoos gone. He pets you while he waits, gentle hands skating down your thorax and brushing the flaps of your false gills, playing at the vulnerable dip between thoracic struts where they jut against the flexible softness of your belly, you all bowed back and tied tight like you are.

A time you can't grasp at passes like that, you breathing hard and unable to move, him just, _touching,_ gentle as a motherfucking song, as the tension bleeds out of his shoulders and he gets that look again, that intense concentration all pointed at you, makes you shiver and motherfucking shake even to think of it, until he's stroking his hands down the twisted stretch of your limbs, checking the cuffs once more to be sure they don't bite nor pinch at you, that your legs won't cramp where they bend. It turns to an excuse for petting, and you strain toward him as he touches at you, too light to soothe, just tickling little strokes that make you _want,_ and you make a frustrated little whine at him that brings evil light to his eyes, and he strokes firm along the planes of your cheeks, thumbs pressing a line down the hollow of your throat as you lean back to give him better access.

"You're so good." He says softly, only time you ever hear him speak soft is when he speaks at you like this. You can't hold back a flinch as he runs his hand down the line of your throat, traces the jut of your bones where they press themselves at your hide, and you want to call his motherfucking lie but he presses a finger against your lips and _shhhs_ at you all soft and diamonds, and you go quiet and can't talk back when he says "So fucking good, you know that?" You whine a protest, pull at chain that keeps your wrists together but he's too motherfucking good at this by now, there's not the slightest give and you're helpless to do anything but squirm as he takes a cloth all warm and presses it to your cheek, shooshes you all gentle as he cleans the paint off you, lays you bare and naked before him, and you can't look him in the eye like that, you look away, turn your head until he grips your chin to hold you still and you have to settle, face hot with the shame of it as he looks on your true face, narrow and skinny and all razorblades and broken glass, nastyass clown trash you are, blemished and scruff-haired and useless. He frowns like he can see the words in your pan and takes your face in his hands again, thumbs brushing gentle at the ridge of your cheekbones, fingers curved in under your jaw where they press at the fluttering of your pulse. "I pity you so fucking much, and you have no idea, do you?" he says, voice wondering like yours when you talk on miracles, "You could be anywhere, doing anything," he rests his head against yours, how your horns would clack if he had anything more than the cutest little nubbins, "You don't even know what fucking day it is, do you?" You don't, but you're enraptured by him, too distracted by the feel of him where he threads his fingers through your hair, fresh-washed and tangle-free for once, his breath where it puffs against your lips when he speaks, you breathing his breath, him breathing yours, You press against him and he sighs, "You're such a pitiful wreck," it sounds like endearment, "You're so fucking brave and strong and ridiculous. If it weren't for-" he breaks off and you see him swallowing the words, pushing it down. He's not allowed to talk shit at himself when you're too far gone to get salty at him for it. You narrow your eyes at him all the same and he quirks a smile at you, "Shoosh. Let me take care of you."

And he does. He cradles you against his chest, fragile and vulnerable, and you bare your throat to him and let him pet and touch and purr at him, and he talks at you, gentle lies and soft untruths, tells you you're motherfucking wonderful, and he's so fucking lucky, and you want to stop him, but you can't do more than twitch in your chains and whine at him until he shooshes you quiet again and starts over, listing your virtues like cooking is a thing you ought get your pride on about, like a little neat clubwork is a thing miraculous. After a while you hide your face in his belly, making embarrassed wheezing noises, distorted and ruined by the thunderous purr stuttering out of you, and he doesn't even care, just keeps touching you all gentle, telling you how good you are, how strong, how motherfucking _brave_ that you killed kin, betrayed motherfucking _family_ to get this far, and you know you would do it all again in a heartbeat, but he doesn't motherfucking _get_ that it was for the sake of him you did it, not some bright moral standing, nor fear of your own culling. He doesn't want to know you'd slit your throat for him, so you don't tell him in words, just let him lay you open bright and raw and silent tears streaming down your naked cheeks to smudge on his skin. You let him cut away your defenses and the safe places you hide so he can see the whole of you, and somehow he finds something there to make him smile, make him cup your face in his hands and press a kiss to your forehead, your eyes, your cheeks, the curve of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, until you're so full up with love for him it rips its way out of you in a violent sob and he brushes away the fat drops of dilute purple with his thumbs and kisses them away and whispers "Shh, shhh, it's okay, you're okay, I've got you, I'm here." And he does have you. Holds you through the shaking terror that opens up before you, croons bits of half-remembered song in his rough raspy voice. You don't hardly ever get him to speak Alternian at you, and never do you get him to sing, but he's got a voice like a seadweller, all low grumbles and sharp hisses that turn the guttural clicks and rasps of your native language into music to your hearflaps, for all he growls and swats you when you tell him so.

You don't know how long it's been when he reaches behind you and undoes the catch, and your arms flop loose and languid as you lean against him, half-asleep and purring with all your might. It takes a few tries to remember how to move, especially with him shuffling you around to undo your legs, but after a bit, you move your arm enough to trace the line of his face clumsily with a hand, and say at him, "Hey brother." almost impossible to hear under the constant rumbles of your chest, and then you pat the side of his face very gently with your fingertips and say, " _Karkat."_ at him, and you don't even know what you mean by it, and from the face he makes as he undoes the cuffs and chafes your legs back into wakefulness, he don't know either, but you just tuck yourself into his broad chest, all lazy and worked down to a puddle. "Karkat." you mumble decisively at him, and he snorts and moves you around until he can lie beside you, half on you all protectively curled around as much of you and he can reach.

"Yeah, yeah, you hopeless idiot," he grumbles at you all fond as he scritches gently around your horns, and you don't hardly notice when he takes the suppressors off. "Pale for you, you stupid wreck."

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this months ago, but I was trying to work on the next chapter of Hope of Morning, and decided to edit this instead. 
> 
> It's a snapshot out of an as-yet-unwritten fic where Karkat's mutation is discovered and they're forced to make a break for it. They end up mixed up in Strider shenanigans, and things progress from there. Maybe I'll post more from the 'verse, if more ends up getting written. 
> 
> As always, let me know if there's tags missing, typos, etc, and thanks for reading.


End file.
